— Chitrak Bhadra
The little simmering hope.
Of a Sunday afternoon splash,
Of a true adventure on the hills,
A floyd pink of the dying day;
Revives the soul and fades away.
Play the confusion,
On Coltrane’s mind;
Who stays up on the beach right into the night,
To clear up the sky with his own hands,
To etch the stars into meaning,
And block the invisible moon;
Is to say nothing of the clumsy poems,
Writ to dispel the soft cushions, broken beds and
Let’s clear up the mess,
Tune to a Minor,
And ride on the back of a Monday morning blues.
To see the moon we missed,
And the less dreaded light on the shore.